


weekend men

by campfires



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Bad Flirting, Borderline Illegal Activities, Inability to Apologise, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 20:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11813415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campfires/pseuds/campfires
Summary: He thought he saw Blake laugh against the skin of his wrist, Rolex glinting in the dim room.





	weekend men

**Author's Note:**

> prompted completely by this: https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DHOkYIIWsAIIHba.jpg:large  
> loosely inspired by: free fire (2016) dir. ben wheatley. if you've seen it you'll recognise the general premise and litany of characters i reference in this. if you haven't- please watch it, it's fucking great. apologies for making these two far too quick/sleazy/rough-and-tumble in this, they're good guys at heart. charming even.  
> this is also not proof read, dubiously out of character and objectively terrible, but bonus points if you knew the song in the title before clicking the link below. (glossary in the end notes if you're lost on some of the slang)

[[♬]](https://open.spotify.com/user/modernstrangersmusic/playlist/27u2jJUO2ii4fn9ejYqsDI)

 

He met him again in the dying days of August, when dusk was long and the nights were short, the sky a perpetual hazy purple behind the smog of the city. It was a weapons deal of all things, in an abandoned factory. Summer heat clung to the back of his neck, sweat settling into the dip between his shoulder blades under the worn leather of his jacket, his flimsy open collar shirt. Murphy could see him sitting on one of the big backed moth-eaten armchairs and rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. His eyes were hooded, gaze heavy. Melting into what fabric was left of the chair: chin up, legs spread, snakeskin boot resting on the edge of a crate full of 12-gauge, pump-action shotguns, obscene in his bravado. Murphy shifted nervously and flashed him a quick smile, all lip and nerves. His fingers fidgeted at the handle of the gun tucked into the back of his suit trousers. The edge of Blake’s lip slid up for a moment before his eyes flicked to the left to where Finn was speaking. Loudly and obnoxiously. Murphy wanted to punch his business partner most of the time, but right then he’d wanted to take his steel-capped toe to Finn’s perpetually bobbing Adam’s apple. 

“Gentlemen, are these weapons cheap?” He smiled the way he always did when the opportunity arose for him to ask rhetorical questions, cheeks pushing his eyes into condescending crescent moons. Murphy rolled his own eyes. He thought he saw Blake laugh against the skin of his wrist, Rolex glinting in the dim room. “The answer is no.” Finn held out his index fingers, as if inviting his audience of three bored criminals to wait. “But!” Here he attempted to pull the cloth from the crate, wisps of chestnut brown hair falling across his forehead with the effort. 

“Could you— Sir—“ his nostrils flared. “Getyourgoddamnfootoffofhere.” The tap of Blake’s heel against the concrete floor reverberated around the room, softened by the splashing of murky water from the ceiling to the far corner. He leaned his head back, running the velveteen tip of his tongue across his top row of teeth. Murphy perhaps would have found it threatening if he weren’t so distracted by ebony eyes and the shift of his fingers across the unlit cigarette. Wiping his hands across the crisp lines of his white suit and acting as if no one had heard the small, unprofessional exhale of breath, Finn went on. 

“You pay for _quality._ ” He lifted the warped wood panel of the crate to reveal six unloaded shotguns, shining maliciously, evil even in their slumber. Murphy’s eyes tracked the impressed raise of Blake’s eyebrows, the way he shifted forward to rest his elbows on his knees and scratch a hand across his neatly bearded chin. 

“And these are quality?” He said, flatly, confrontationally, head cocked as if he were still considering. His voice was guarded, low and gravelly next to Finn’s smooth candour. 

“The finest quality you can get in this city, brother.” Finn was tapping his fingers against the side of his thigh in anticipation now, restless, sweat beading at his hairline. Blake tipped his expressive eyebrows up in response as his gaze darted from Finn to Murphy. The skin at the back of Murphy’s neck prickled. Harsh and striking in profile, Blake looked up at the man beside him: tall and imposing, the sharp outlines of tattoos visible through his thin white shirt. The man nodded, bald head shining darkly in the dusky light. Blake stood up suddenly and thrust out a hand, fingers inches from Finn’s garish pink tie. 

“Deal.” He reached towards Murphy at the last second instead of Finn, who tucked his own scorned hand into his pocket deftly as Blake veered right. He stared at him, heavy brown eyes dipping low and skating over the peachy scar in the hollow of Murphy’s clavicle as their hands bobbed, oblivious to Finn’s excited chatter in the background. Blake’s index finger traced the inside of Murphy’s wrist. Murphy leaned into the handshake.

“You want our guy to bring the van around, uh— Mr. Lincoln?” Finn rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, thumbing the cotton soft edges of the wad of bills he’d just been handed.

_Mr. Lincoln_ snorted in amusement, eyes passing over Finn as if he’d only just realised he was standing there. “Just Lincoln.”

“You want the van? Just Lincoln?” Finn smiled toothily as Lincoln’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.

Blake looked up at Murphy through sooty lashes, squinting almost imperceptibly. Murphy’s eyes drifted to the dark strip of skin below his chin where the fabric of Blake’s turtleneck ended, the broad line of his shoulders in his suit jacket. He realised belatedly that they were still shaking hands. Blake drew him in roughly as Jasper swerved the van past, a strong hand gripping his hip as the rear view mirror bumped against Murphy’s shoulder. A song with too much acoustic guitar blared from the speakers as Jasper rolled to a stop, his dark head of hair bobbing out of time with the music, flicking a lit joint up and down between his teeth and grinning at Finn through the grimy windshield. Murphy untangled himself from Blake’s strong arms and his wide, warm hands. 

“Jasper’s always fucking stoned,” he said by way of apology, ears and the column of his neck flushing the same brilliant pink. Blake folded his arms, leaning forward slightly. 

“Sounds unsafe,” he whispered, humour and husk playing at the edges of his voice, wry smile blooming crows feet at the ends of his eyes.

“Oh it is,” Murphy’s fingers scratched at the place where his undercut met the rest of his hair, head turned towards the crate of guns to avoid looking at the other man’s face, lit up and handsome in the headlights of Jasper’s shitty second hand van. “But he drives better stoned than sober, if you can believe that.”

Blake looked to where Jasper was trying to light Finn’s joint with the end of his and lift the crate at the same time. His eyebrows told Murphy that he couldn’t really believe it, but was too polite to comment. A wispy, slight man emerged from the shadows behind Lincoln and swept the crate into his arms gracefully, shaking his close shaven caramel head at Jasper’s fumbling. His peach patterned shirt was bright and loose on his shoulders, billowing with his movements against the dull walls as if he were a bird of paradise flitting about in the dirty confines of a cage. The man shouted something at Jasper that drifted towards them and sounded suspiciously like “ _burnout,”_ and _“fucking honky.”_ Blake leaned in again to murmur near Murphy’s ear. 

“That’s Miller. Total smartass, but he’s the best driver we have.”

Murphy hummed, the edge of his cheek brushing Blake’s in their closeness. “He’s three things Jasper isn’t then.”

Blake exhaled through his nose softly, barely even a laugh. Murphy smiled slowly to himself. 

The deal finished up with Miller making quick work of the four crates, hauling them into the back of his shiny (considerably less second hand) van in just under two minutes. Finn stood by talking expressively with his hands in Lincoln’s direction, who looked like he’d wanted to be anywhere else. Blake moved to the side so that his bicep pressed against Murphy’s in a long warm line through the material of his jacket. Lincoln had escaped Finn’s chatter and resolutely shut the passenger side door of the van shut. Jasper was scrabbling about in the dust of the factory floor, presumably looking for something. Blake bumped his hip against Murphy’s lightly.

“Good night, John-Boy! Haul ass!” Finn shouted through a mouthful of pot, smoke blurring his wide mouth and half closed eyes. Murphy turned instinctively at the familiar calling, but Bellamy tugged at the inseam of his jacket, cornering him gently into the wall and stopping him in his tracks. 

“Wanna get a drink with me?” He murmured softly, eyes sliding across Murphy’s long Roman nose. 

“Sure,” Murphy said: a short, decisive huff of breath. He inhaled the scent of blueberry, unexpected and lovely. “I just need to..” He inclined his head towards Finn, who was loudly tapping along to Jasper’s music on the door of the van, hollow metallic beats echoing around in the space between them. Bellamy nodded, loosened his grip on the soft leather edges of Murphy’s jacket, stepped back slowly. 

Finn’s eyebrows flew almost to his hairline. “You’re gonna fuck the guy we just sold twenty four shotguns to?” Jasper giggled in a stoned haze from the driver’s seat, collapsing lower until Murphy could only see the luminescent tip of his joint in the darkness. Murphy had crushed the van’s map light with his elbow one night while changing suits between trade deals, and no one had ever bothered to replace it. He flicked the tip of Finn’s ear sharply. 

“Not gonna fuck him. We’re going for drinks.”

“Drinks are like foreplay for straight people,” Jasper piped up.

Murphy sighed brusquely, already tired of this line of conversation. “Good thing we’re all queer.”

“You’re the only one who rides the bendy road in this van, buddy,” Finn sing-songs, hand hovering near Murphy’s nose, a finger outstretched as if to tap it. Murphy jerked his head away and slammed the van door behind him to walk towards Blake: stood at the mouth of the factory, all six something foot of him backlit by the waxy lights of the city, arms outstretched in his ridiculous turtleneck-blazer combo, exciting and blueberry-scented and magnetically attractive.

 

Blake rolled his cigarette between his fingers as they walked, shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk under flickering streetlights, so close that Murphy could feel the heat rolling off his body. “Need a light?”

“What?”

“Your cigarette.”

Bellamy shook his head, long dark curls rippling at his cheekbones. “Tryin’ to quit.”

Murphy nodded, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket and jangling his keys around, loose change clinking against the muted sounds of the city.

They ducked into a crowded bar, long faux leather seats the colour of cherry wine, a tasteful stripe of wood along the walls behind scattered framed photographs and shelves of liquor, liquor, liquor. The dusty lights softened Blake’s face and brought out the constellation of freckles across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. As they leaned against the grimy wood countertop of the bar Murphy pressed his hand to the middle of Blake’s back under his suit jacket, a silent promise. He pulled away when the shots came, and Blake dipped his head to pick one up off the counter with his teeth, pushing back a curtain of middle parted curls as he straightened his back, throat working to swallow the acrid liquor smoothly. He drew his hands out in a wide arc and wiggled his fingers, as if it were a marvel to take a no hands shot. Murphy raised his eyebrows and attempted to do the same, slowly and a little self consciously, throat tipped back and running sweaty palms up and down the front of his thighs to prepare himself. Blake was looking at him warmly, a squinty smile playing across his features. He ran a thumb across the dark line of his jaw, head tilted back in amusement. Sparks of vodka and Frangelico peppered Murphy’s nose as he snorted and lost his grip on the tiny shot glass. It whirled to the floor, tinkling sadly as it shattered and sent fat droplets of liquid across Murphy’s dirty combat boots, Blake’s expensive snakeskin boots. The bar was too crowded for anyone to notice, but the patron next to them arched a disapproving eyebrow and twisted the corner of his mouth into a scowl. Blake laughed, low and soaked with mirth. The shadows underneath his brow stretched long and dark under the bar’s lighting, and his eyes were shielded as his fingers skittered across Murphy’s chest, his other hand performing some sort of complicated manoeuvre behind Murphy’s back. “Wanna get out of here?”

Murphy leaned forward to swipe an abandoned white Russian from beside Blake’s shoulder. He downed the milky end of the drink, cracking a softened ice cube between his back teeth. 

“I’m thinkin’ we might have to.” Blake pushed him towards the exit as Murphy threw the glass haphazardly over his shoulder, eyebrows jumping when it received an angry shout from the bartender. 

“Hey! What the hell, man?”

“Fuck— let’s jam,” Blake urges into his ear, voice teetering on the edge of a laugh. “Go, go, go!” They pushed past the patrons of the bar, shouldering in between disgruntled couples; Blake knocking a guy into the jukebox roughly with one of his broad shoulders, prompting a wave of whiskey to rain down across its neon song-title tiles, Murphy accidentally tipping a table of drinks with his hip and sending an arc of rainbow liquid hurtling into the air, glimmering before it splashed into the laps of three women. 

 

Then they were running down a dim alley, breathless and dragging wisps of mixed alcohol along with them, their jackets streaming behind them in the humid air as the bar’s emergency exit swung closed on furious exclamations and muffled music. Blake’s watch sent bouncing rays of golden refracted light across the underside of his chin, Murphy’s cheekbone, the damp brick walls of the alley. Murphy stopped to catch his breath, doubled over with his fingers clutching his knees. He laughed weakly, aware of Blake’s tall form hovering at his shoulder. “That bar was overpriced anyway,” he said, instead of saying, _“I’m reckless and impulsive. Sorry.”_ Blake smirked and held up a tiny bottle of spiced rum. It sloshed around darkly in it’s glass home. 

“Five finger discount,” he said, instead of saying _“I’m reckless and impulsive too, but I’m not sorry about it.”_ He took a liberal swig as an ambulance whined past at the opening of the alley, heavily accented voices rising above the sirens: a city of crime and sin alive in the neon night. 

Murphy took in the cowlick edges of Blake’s hair, ignited with the deep, dangerous red of a nearby sputtering motel sign and his dusky bottom lip, shining darkly with alcohol; full and smirking. He surged forward as Blake was tucking the rum into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, their mouths meeting in a clash of teeth and tongue. Murphy, all class, backed him up into the exposed brick wall of the alley behind an empty dumpster, Blake grinning into the kiss as Murphy’s fingers played just below his bearded jawline. Murphy swiped his tongue across Blake’s bottom lip, flicking the edges of his impossibly straight bottom teeth. Gentle hands found their way to Murphy’s hips, pulling him closer and licking into his mouth with brazen assurance. Sparks bloomed behind Murphy’s eyelids as Blake dipped his head to mouth at his neck. “You smell of—” his breath hitched in his throat as Blake scraped his teeth across his earlobe. “Blueberries.” 

“Mm.”

“Is it uh.. perfume?” Murphy was babbling now, running his hands through Blake’s silky hair, pulling him closer so gently he didn’t even realise what he was doing. Blake pulled back to look him in the eyes, pupils blown to high fucking heavens, looking impossibly serious and winsome.  "It's beard oil." He ran his thumbs across Murphy’s hipbones under his shirt, sending goosebumps sparking up the line of his spine. 

“Oh,” Murphy nodded, lightheaded with lust and feeling as though this was one of the most perfectly bizarre nights of his life. Blake leaned back in to run the downy tip of his nose along Murphy’s scruffy jawline, murmuring softly. 

“D’you remember last time?” It took Murphy a moment to realise what he’d said, and when he’d parsed it out he laughed, a mirthful huff of air against the crown of Blake’s sable head. 

“Your car still smell like dope and smokes?” He said, ignoring the way his voice came out in a breathy rush. Blake licked a stripe from his Adam’s apple to the hinge of his jaw and blew a tiny blast of cold air across it in reprimand. Murphy swallowed shakily, planting a hand on the wall next to Blake’s hip to steady himself. Blake leaned back against the wall to arch an eyebrow and suppress a wry smirk. He hummed in contemplation.

“I don’t sling beast anymore..” He trailed two fingers across the hollow of Murphy’s collarbone, careful to avoid his scar, still an angry flare of new flesh. “So no.” 

“Kind of unprofessional to deal out the back of your Chevy Camaro,” Murphy mumbled, a lithe hand at Blake’s hip trying to work out how to get underneath the soft wool material of his turtleneck. Blake snorted noisily. 

“About as unprofessional as your guys sparking a doobie on the job.” His voice was a wreck, spinning between throaty and gravelly. Murphy shrugged leather clad shoulders. 

“Hey,” he leaned in to press a kiss to the side of Blake’s smirking mouth. “I’m sober.” 

They made out lazily behind the dumpster, Murphy’s thighs bracketing Blake’s as they tangled themselves around one another: tender and gentle, soft and slow. “So—” Blake broke the kiss with a sigh, resting his forehead against Murphy’s shoulder as if this conversation was exhausting before it had even begun. “’S’your first name _John-boy_?” The nickname fell from the end of his tongue lightly, half mocking and half curious. Murphy sighed deeply in response, mirroring Blake's exhaustion as a show of solidarity. 

“John-boy. Johnno. Johnny,” He rolled his eyes. “All the variants.”

Blake pulled his head up to face him. “I’m Bellamy.” 

“Bellamy..” Murphy rolled the word around on his tongue; its sweet taste light and simple. “Very foxy.” Blake laughed, clear and ringing in the alleyway, pressed the palm of his hand to the side of Murphy’s neck. 

“You’re John then? Just John?” 

Murphy nodded languidly. “Can I ask you to call me Murphy though?” 

Blake tilted his head forward to flutter an eyelash at the peak of Murphy’s cheekbone, his milky skin flushing prettily in response. “You do what you want, man.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "undercut and middle part take on the sidewalks"
> 
> [The phrase "Good night, John-boy," that Finn shouts during the deal was popularised in The Waltons, an American TV show that ran in the 70s. To "sling beast" is to deal or sell heroin-laced LSD.]


End file.
